


My Heart was Aching for Home

by Hepzheba



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Break Up, Single Parent Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hepzheba/pseuds/Hepzheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve been away from Beacon Hills for a little over five years. You’ve lived in New York all those years, living the life you wanted when you were younger. You’ve spent five years missing him, yearning for him, but now you’re back where it all started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart was Aching for Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first second person narrative I've ever written so I've been freaking out about it a lot. [ Bee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamtomorrowandjamyesterday), [Wiski](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiski/) and [Beth](http://foreverblue-navy.tumblr.com/) have all been so helpful with proof-reading this. Thanks a lot, sweeties!
> 
> The inspiration for this was Brandi Carlile's What did I ever come here for? and the title is from that song too (though in the youtube vidoe I found, they said the lyrics was "my heart was aching for hope" but another source says home. Idk I always heard home so I'll stick with home and that suits this story).

You’ve been away from Beacon Hills for a little over five years. You’ve lived in New York all those years, living the life you wanted when you were younger. You’ve had serious relationships, you’ve dated, you’ve hooked up. But not one of the persons you’ve kissed, held hands with or fucked was even remotely like him. You’ve spent five years missing him, yearning for him, but now you’re back where it all started.

Maybe it’s too late to ring his doorbell now? It’s almost nine in the evening, but you know he works the best in the late evenings, if it’s up to him he can stay up to write the whole night. His father always stopped him whenever he was home, or sometimes you dropped by and distracted him with your hands and mouth. He never managed to get back to his computer chair if you’ve dragged him away from there and to his bed.

He doesn’t live with his dad anymore. He lives in a one story house in the suburbs. His old, blue jeep that he had in high school, at least until you left before his senior year, isn’t there; instead there’s a boring, dark sedan. You don’t really care about the car even if it’s a change from how it used to be and you don’t really like changes.

You’ve already rung the doorbell; it’s too late to back down now.

The door opens and you don’t know what you expected; maybe his shocked expression is just what you should’ve expected, but it’s not what you had hoped for. You know it’s stupid, but you hoped he’d throw himself in your arms, kiss you and then you’d never leave ever again.

He doesn’t do that; he just stares, mouth slightly open and brown eyes wide. He’s older, and you knew he would be older, it’s been five years, but you didn’t understand what it would mean for him to be older. His shoulders are broader and face more mature, no longer boyish. His brown hair is not buzz cut as it used to be, but a few inches long and artfully styled. Or maybe he just dragged his fingers through it a few times when it was still wet from his shower that morning. His brown eyes are the same.

He’s gorgeous.

“Derek,” he says. It’s not a question, but maybe it should have been. He might have just thought he’s hallucinating.

You don’t know what to say. What does anyone say? Hi?

Before you have time to say anything a voice calls from inside – a woman’s voice. She calls his name – Stiles – and asks if something’s wrong. You wonder if they’re close, if she’s his wife.

“No, it’s fine,” he calls into the house, head turned slightly to the side. His voice is shaky and you wonder what he’ll say about you after you’ve gone. “Now is not a good time,” he says, he looks confused and harassed. He doesn’t meet your eye, even though you stare at him, drinking him in, he barely looks at you at all before he shuts the door in your face.

You don’t ring the doorbell again.

When you pass the car – the boring, dark sedan – you notice the two child seats in the back. One of them is for a small child, maybe even an infant, the child sitting backwards. The other is for a larger child with the seat facing forward. You wonder how old that child is, it can’t have been born long after you left, you think. You want to check the driver’s seat to see if it’s arranged for his gangly limbs or a woman’s shorter legs. You don’t. You walk to your car that’s parked on the street a few houses down.

 

You stay in Beacon Hills. You don’t know where else to go, you _have_ nowhere else to go. You meet people you used to be friends with in high school; they’re happy to see you. Some have gotten married, some are single and happy.

You run into his best friend Scott. From the way Scott reacts, smile disappearing and a frown taking its place when he sees you, you know that they’re still friends. You’re glad. Scott is a good, loyal friend. Scott doesn’t ignore you. He shakes your hand, asking how you’ve been. You don’t tell him that you’ve spent all those years missing his best friend. You don’t ask for him to tell Stiles to forgive you.  If Scott spoke in your favor he’d probably listen.

 

Your old high school friend Isaac helps you find work at his job at the local grocery store. It’s not much but it pays the bills. You prefer to work the strange hours, early or late when not too many people come in.

You think you see Stiles with a small girl in one hand and the other on a shopping cart where you also think you see an infant carrier. You turn the other way. You were so inclined to get back to him that you hadn’t even considered that he might have moved on.

You should never have left.

 

You go running in the park every day, at different times because of your different working hours. It’s early afternoon when you hear his laughter, it’s bright and carefree and so familiar it hurts. You’re not prepared for it – nothing could really prepare you for it.

It’s an unconscious decision to stop and turn around towards the sound. You see him on a bench by the playground. He’s laughing at something a black-haired girl’s telling him before she runs off to the slides where another girl is. You know – the moment you see the other girl – that she’s his daughter. They have the same pale skin and moles across the faces, the same upturned nose and the same brown hair, hers in pigtails.

You watch the girl and her friend play at the slide for a moment before you turn your eyes towards him. He’s not alone anymore. You didn’t really notice the stroller next to him, but he’s picking up a baby from it now, cooing at it. The baby seems small. You don’t know much about babies, you have no idea if it’s a year or a month old. You want to approach them. See the baby, see if it has his brown eyes, his upturned nose or if it looks more like its mother, whoever she is.

The baby makes grabby hands but doesn’t really seem to try to catch anything. You think it’s quite young. You wonder if it’s a boy or a girl, what it’s named. He coos at the baby, gets a bottle from nowhere and starts feeding it. The baby settles down quickly, one of its tiny hands holding his larger hands.

You swallow hard. You want to be part of that. Not just part of a family, but part of _his_ family. You’ve never really wanted kids before, but you want _his_ kids.

You turn your back and start running again. Maybe you push yourself a little bit harder than you usually do.

 

When you finally come face to face with him again it’s just as much of a shock for you as it was for him that night when you came knocking on his door.

“Excuse me,” he says from somewhere behind you as you’re half-way through unpacking a cardboard box with pasta. He probably only sees the store’s red polo-shirt, having no idea that it’s you. You wonder if he would just have passed, asking help from someone else, if he had recognized you. You turn to face him, deliberately slow. “Could you tell- Derek?”

He stares at you, his pink lips parted in obvious surprise.

This time you manage to find your voice.

“Stiles. Hi.”

“Hi.” His voice is breathless, like he’s been running. Or having wild, hot sex. Sadly you remember vividly how that last one sounds like.

“How you been?” you ask, as if you’re just old classmates, as if you just maybe sat next to each other in chemistry. As if he isn’t the reason you’ve been miserable for the past five years. As if he isn’t the reason you’re back in this small town you never liked when you were growing up. As if he isn’t the love of your freaking life. As if you didn’t let him slip away because of pride and young foolishness.

“Good,” he says, motions with his hand towards the cart where the baby is in its carrier. The baby is dressed in jeans and a plaid bodysuit. You smile at this, Stiles always wore plaid. Still is, you notice when you drag your eyes over his long, lean body.

“How old?” you ask because you’ve been researching babies and you think it’s around a few months.

“Five months,” he says, a fond smile playing on his lips when he glances towards his baby.

“What’s his name? It’s a boy, right?” you ask. The clothes look boyish but Stiles would be one of those parents who doesn’t care about such things.

“Yeah,” he hesitates, swallows, averts his gaze from you. “Tyler.”

Your heart stutters and you stare at him. His cheeks are pink.

“My middle name is Tyler,” you say. It’s probably just a coincidence.

“I know,” he says, looking away, his cheeks and neck almost red.

“Oh.” You don’t know what to say. You want to ask if it’s a coincidence. It probably is.

“Daddy, I found the fruit loops.” His daughter comes up by his side, proudly holding up the package. Stiles seems to want to be anywhere but in this pasta aisle with you.

“Well done, honey. Come on, we don’t-”

“You’re that boy,” the girl says to you.

“Honey, don’t-” Stiles tries to herd her backwards and you would probably let him because you know he’s not yours to keep, even though you desperately want to know what she’s talking about.

“Daddy, he’s the boy in the picture, the one mom left you for.”

Stiles covers his face in his hands, giving up on getting his daughter to be quiet. Even if you’ve just met her you think she reminds you quite a lot about her dad, he was stubborn and would never shut up either.

“Oh, my god,” Stiles whispers. “Derek, I’m sorry, I’m not- She’s- uh- you know- it’s-”

“I miss you,” you blurt out, as if his lack of things to say kick started your mouth. He stares at you, whiskey-colored eyes wide and shiny, and you think you might look quite the same. Terrified, but yet hopeful.

“I miss you too.”

You draw in a sharp breath because you left him for going to college, for getting the real life experience, away from this hole that’s supposed to be a town, and he should’ve gotten over you.

“I-” you start but he interrupts you. His ability to speak seems to have returned.

“We’re different people, I have two kids and you- I- we don’t know each other.”

“We could date,” you suggest because you won’t let him slip away, not this time, not again.

“I don’t have money for a babysitter,” he says. From his words it would seem that he wouldn’t want to date you, but his eyes say a whole different thing.

“I could cook you something,” you say even though it’s a terrible idea because last night you burnt pasta when you cooked it. You wince and he chuckles, obviously understanding why you wince and remembering your lack of cooking skills.

“I can cook you something,” he says instead, because while he never was a great cook like Scott, he’s not a disaster like you. “You can watch the kids and get to know them and I’ll cook something and-”

“And then we go from there?” you ask, hopeful. He smiles, full-out smiles, and your knees might get a bit weak. You probably ran too long yesterday.

“Laura, what do you say about having Derek over for dinner tomorrow?”

His daughter – Laura – smiles and nods shyly at Derek.

“My sister’s name was Laura,” you say and he smiles a bit sadly.

“I know.”

“Thank you.” You don’t know why you’re thanking him, for naming his kid after your deceased sister or for giving you another chance. Probably both.

He smiles at you as he walks backwards. Right into a display of cans. He goes down along with the cans and you hurry over to help him up. He smiles sheepishly and accepts your hand, it’s warm and soft and a bit sweaty. It’s not until later when you’re in your bed that you remember that this is the first time in five years that you’ve touched. Now you just stare into his eyes way too long as he’s standing right in front of you. He stares right back and leans in just a bit and you think he’s going to kiss you. Or that you might kiss him. Either is fine. Both is fine.

“Daddy,” Laura complains, tugging at Stiles’ shirt and breaking the spell. You release his hand and take a step back and he rubs at his neck, cheeks a tad bit pink.

“Can we have cocoa puffs for dinner?” Laura asks.

“Sure we can, sweetie.” He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says to you and you nod, smile back and ignore the snickers from Isaac.

“Yeah, I’ll see you.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

He almost walks into a shelf but manages to avoid it at the last moment. You watch him as he disappears between the aisles further down.

“That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever seen,” Isaac scoffs. “Get this shit cleaned up.”

You don’t argue with Isaac but just get to work. When he complains about you humming under your breath two hours later you throw a banana at him though. But you still can’t get the smile off your face.

You got another chance. You won’t screw it up this time, you’re sure.


End file.
